The Bridge Between Two Worlds: The Untold Memories of My Eighth Year

[Author's Note ]

This post contains raw and sensitive descriptions of loss.
Please read only if you feel emotionally ready to hold space for this story. Ultimately, this is a story of love.

言語を切り替えても、日本語版が表示されない可能性があります。
Noteでも同じ記事を掲載していますので、よろしければこちらよりご覧ください。

When I was eight years old, my father’s world began to unravel from his back.

It started with a sudden, persistent pain. A man who harbored a quiet disdain for hospitals, he chose to endure it with simple medicated patches for months. By the time he finally relented and sought medical help, the diagnosis was terminal: late-stage cancer.

My family left no stone unturned in our search for a cure. Although I did not go myself, they traveled as far as China to seek the help of a Qi Gong master. At the time, I could not have known that this would become a vital thread in the tapestry of my life: a form of foreshadowing that would only reveal itself decades later.

I watched my once robust father wither away, day by day.

One weekend morning, a scream from my mother pulled me into the living room. My father lay collapsed on the carpet, having coughed up blood. In the chaotic aftermath, I sat waiting in the car with a family friend while the ambulance carried him away. Soon, the news reached us: despite the doctors' best efforts, he was gone.

When I entered the hospital room, his physical form lay still upon the bed. My family was caught in a whirlwind of grief, sobbing uncontrollably. But to me, the scene was profoundly strange.

It was strange because my father was right there.

While his body lay on the bed, his consciousness, his "being", was unmistakably present right in front of my eyes. He was watching his own body alongside everyone else, appearing almost curious about the situation. I looked at my grieving family and found myself bewildered. I couldn't understand why they were crying so desperately when he was still so clearly present. Yet, sensing that this was a moment where tears were expected, I faked them. I remember that moment of "performed grief" with startling clarity even now.

During the hours of the funeral, I stood beside the casket, greeting every person who came to offer a flower. I didn’t cry once. The adults praised me, saying how brave I was for someone so small. But again, it was just... strange. My father was there.

To this day, the scent of lilies pulls that memory to the surface. Massive white blooms flanked his casket, and there he was. drifting casually through the sea of black clothes and sorrowful faces. He looked at everyone with a certain yearning, a gentle sadness in his eyes. Occasionally, our eyes would meet, but he would quickly look away to ensure no one else noticed our shared secret.

When the house finally fell quiet, a heavy, somber atmosphere settled over us. It was only natural, my mother’s grief was beyond my childhood comprehension: the love of her life had departed, leaving her to raise a small child alone. The carpet still bore the stains of that morning’s blood.

It was then that I began a true dialogue with my father’s consciousness. I would often report to my mother, “I was just talking to Papa about this.” Though she struggled to believe me when I told her he was right there, we found a singular anchor to hold onto: my father’s last will, his final letter. It began with the words: "To my most beloved."

Reading it was the first time I truly cried. Not out of sadness, but because I had touched something vast: a Great Love. Perhaps that was the first time I truly experienced the two forms of love humans can receive: the wordless love of consciousness, and the love we receive through spoken and written words.

Words have their limits.

The conversations between insects, animals, trees, and fungi occur through vibrations far removed from human language. In my career, I have conducted experiments in the realm of science, gathered data, and written papers to prove facts. Yet, I feel deeply that the world is overflowing with realms that science and human "language" can never fully explain.

But I have also come to believe that words, or Kotodama, the spirit within language, are a magnificent tool. They act upon the souls of people and the living beings of this Earth, moving them, stirring them, and spreading love. They are a bridge that connects old memories, allowing us to learn our "history," touch the wisdom of our ancestors and the natural world, and express the profound "joy of existence."

After my father departed, I found myself compelled to create: collections of haiku, essays, picture books, and even a small research book on dolphins. I will omit the stormy years that followed for now, but after many twists and turns, I eventually returned to the path of "weaving words."

This is the origin of my work: "Love letters to the Earth and photographs where sound resonates."

What I wish to convey through these works is the "Love" that exists just beyond the threshold of human vision. Love is the fundamental element of our existence; it is where we are born from, and where we return to. I often wondered how I could ever communicate such an abstract truth. Then, I found myself consistently drawn to the forest or the sea, camera in hand. In those moments, "poetry" was born.

My decision to express my work on social media a platform I was never particularly fond of, was not a decision made by my "will" alone. It is a collaboration with my father, those I have said goodbye to, my ancestors, the spirits of nature, my guardians, and the universe itself.

I began taking portraits of a dear friend who is a Qi Gong master. They taught me that my photographs capture energy and things from the unseen world that are normally hidden.

Today, I weave words with love from these many existences. I capture light with my lens, turning my dialogue with the Earth into art. And across time and space, the eight-year-old me speaks to me still:

"Close your eyes. Take a slow, deep breath, and feel the warmth of your body. Savor the miracle of this new morning, then slowly open your eyes. Papa, and everyone else... everything is right there."

The fact that you exist here on Earth, in this physical body, is nothing short of a miracle. And this miracle is colored and protected by things that exist within the visible realm, and things that do not.

I stand as a bridge between these two worlds. Through science and photography, through sensation and poetry, I hope to lead you into a world of love.

I would be honored if you would continue this journey with me.

To all of you who send warm messages and circulate your energy here, thank you from the bottom of my heart. And to the "eccentrics" who read this long story to the very end: I send you, and all existences, my greatest love.